


Check your guns at the door (You won't need them anyway)

by DarkShadeless



Series: Long live the Emperor (whether he likes it or not) [12]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Shenanigans, Sith being Sith, XD, Yon being himself, and Vette, by my other babies, how I imagine it went, more specifically - Freeform, the Eternity Vault, the REAL reason Yare is terrified of his Emperor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: It was supposed to be just another mission. A more high profile one than his usual, maybe, but just a mission. Dear Force.Or: How Yare, who would go on to claim the title of Darth Nox, makes the acquaintance of Yon’Sar al Thum before anyone ever thought to call him Wrath. It’s… a wild ride.





	Check your guns at the door (You won't need them anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> The Empire’s Fury tries its hand at a major collaborative mission. Aka: When the PvP guild decides to PvE. XD (Yare would like to go back to fighting Reps. Pretty please?)

 

 

Before Yon’s election Yare finds himself continuously baffled at the… well. Lack of concern? his fellow councillors exhibit when it comes to the Wrath. Somehow, they have convinced themselves he is…

Yare honestly has no idea how to frame that thought in a way that won’t make his brain rebel.

 _A moderate threat at best_. Negligible unless the Emperor sends him against one of them, or the Budget Conference rolls around.

Once Yon himself ascends to the throne that stance starts to slip. He’s someone to be considered _now_ , he’s a threat to them _now_ if they misstep, because he has the power and inclination to take them out. Now but not before.

Yare watches the Dark Council fumble with that new reality and wants to bury his face in his hands. Because all of that? Is _bantha shit_.

 

* * *

 

General Threnoldt looked more than a bit frazzled around the edges when he called Yare up.

And wasn’t that an awkward chat. Darth Thanaton gives him headaches even when he’s not present to make himself a direct nuisance. Then again, is that really a first?

Anyhow. When the commanding officer of the Imperial Reclamation Service looks one cup of kaf away from a heart attack its best not to screw around. That entire division has a spine of steel and the balls to match.

“I have petitioned for our best troops, my lord. They are arriving as we speak. If you would join our strike team I would more than welcome your assistance.”

Yikes. That serious, huh? “Of course. I’m always happy to help the Imperial Reclamation Service. What exactly is this about?”

 

Apparently they have unearthed a new prison complex on Belsavis, housing an ancient threat. Yare’s specialty, one could say.

They share a very awkward moment where the good General tries to find a diplomatic way to tell him that he isn’t in charge of the assault because they’ve already got a commander. One of Malgus favoured field agents, sounds like. Tempest.

Actually it sounds like they called Malgus up directly, asked for concentrated firepower and he delivered.

That’s what the hangar bay Yare is escorted to _looks like_ too. Force, there are people here he has only heard vague (or less vague) rumors about. The Mandalorian in the corner is rolling something into the shuttle that looks suspiciously like a whole crate of explosive ordnance. _It’s going to be that kind of mission, is it?_

Their field commander is supervising the whole affair with the staid composure of a veteran in his element. What brings Yare up short a bit is the petite Twi’lek at his back, half hanging over his armoured shoulder in an attempt to read his datapad. He can count the times he has seen members of his own species so at ease in this kind of company on one hand.  

The man is unmistakeably Sith, his presence in the Force a subtle weight.

“Can I help you?”

 _Enough daydreaming._ Yare shakes off his distraction and steps closer. “General Threnoldt contacted me to round out your team. Lord Yare, it’s a pleasure.”

Tempest doesn’t react to this past his expression growing faintly guarded. Yare can work with that. “Lord Sar, the pleasure is mine. Have you been briefed?”

“I got the high points,” Yare glances over the assembled fighters. Two Mandalorians, two more Sith and a Chiss that has so little in distinguishing features on his armour he might as well have spray-painted ‘I AM AN IMP INT AGENT’ on it in neon colors. “Do we have a plan of attack yet?” After a short pause he returns his full attention to the warrior in front of him. “Commander.”

The acknowledgement of their assigned roles makes Sar relax almost imperceptibly. “We have a rough outline. The only thing we truly know about the layout of the prison complex is that the security systems are still active. When we approach, they will react to us…”

 

* * *

 

Really, when they first meet everything about Tempest makes Yare slot him in somewhere under ‘Average in power but highly competent’. He seems to be one of those Sith who will actually follow the chain of command and respect the soldiers working under him. So, the mission starts out on a good note.

Yare will remember thinking this later. He will remember and he will _regret_. Because as it turns out?

Underneath all of his reasonable self-possession Sar is a damned power house to rival anything Thanaton has ever thrown at him and, as seems to be standard for Sith of that distinction, he is _certifiably insane._

 

* * *

 

The approach is rough. Their shuttle comes in close enough but there’s a blizzard raging outside that has them all bundled up in climate controlled full-body armor. Yare can’t see his own hand in front of his face much less the complex until they’ve almost stumbled right onto the tarmac on its doorstep.

Sar signals a halt and that’s when the outlines, dormant but exuding the shivery potential of threat, become clearer.

Ghost, the Chiss, makes a slightly strangled noise that speaks directly to Yare’s soul. “What is that?”

Their commander turns to him and manages to sound remarkably as if he has raised an eyebrow at this _ridiculous and unnecessary_ question. “The security system.”

“Right. The _security system_.”

Sar ignores that incredulous whisper and musters the challenge in their way. “We’ll approach this according to plan. Ghost, you take Gril and V’riel and hack the left pylon, please. Nox if you’d accompany Hunter and Scree while they see what they can do about the right one?” Yare nods numbly. “Very good.”

One of the Mandos raises a hand. “Question!” She sounds much too enthused about the prospect of the next five minutes.

“Yes?”

“Who’s gonna fight the droid? Because I could totally fight the droid. Can I fight the droid?”

‘Droid’ is one way to put it. Personally, Yare would go with ‘ _Hovertank-sized killing machine_ ’.

Sar huffs a filtered laugh. “I will fight the droid and Vette will cover me. When the pylons are down you’ll join me.”

Scree’s whoop of glee almost drowns out the Twi’lek’s faint, “Oh, great. _Yay_.”

“Alright, preliminary scans have shown that the pylons are equipped with proximity activated laser canons and that the guardian droid may have a few banks of rocket propelled explosive devices. We’ve got little to no cover here and no other approach, so if either of them starts shooting at you… duck, I guess.”

What the kriff. _What the_ **_kriff_**.

 

* * *

 

They survive that encounter. Yare spends most of it pressed to the smoking ruin of a bombed out security pylon, scraping together what Force healing he can when the only enemies around are _machines_ and convinced he’s going to die.

He has weathered a few frontal assaults in his time but this is _ridiculous_.

Sar does, indeed, take on the droid. It quickly becomes clear he is barely of a height with its lowest leg segment but that gives him no pause. Yare loses sight of him after that between the blizzard, the barrage of _anti-personnel lasers_ coming down on them and the clouds of flash freezing vapor exploding around their commander as the droid does its level best to sublimate him.

The only indication that it hasn’t been successful is its continuous preoccupation with the ground at its feet.

Force help them.

But there’s no time for hesitation. Soon as they have strapped their target with more explosives than Yare cares to see in one place, Hunter and Scree throw themselves into the fight with no less lack of self-preservation than their commander did. He does what he does best and tries to keep them alive while he hurls corruption at the mechanical menace in an attempt to slow it down.

They… they don’t die. That’s all he can say about that disaster of a fight.

 

* * *

 

It goes downhill from there. Seeing as they started rock bottom Yare isn’t sure _how_ but it does.

The prison complex turns out to be less a building and more of a biome. Several biomes, if the view from the entrance is anything to go by. They leave the dizzying drop of the approach behind them and freezing cold gives way to blistering heat in the blink of an eye. Thankfully they’re equipped for that. Yare doesn’t fancy being boiled in lava.

 _That_ is still in the cards, though, seeing as the only exit leads directly over a whole lake of molten stone. A gigantic, tusked creature seems to have made the cave its home and Yare can already tell where this is going.

He’s not the only one. Sar’s companion takes one look at the set up and rounds on him, lekku curled into a gesture of absolute denial. “No. Nononono. _No_.”

“Vette,” _How_ does he still sound so Force damned _reasonable_? “We are going through that door.”

 

* * *

 

They go through that door.

But not before they have to charge over the unstable footholds of _half submerged rocks_ jutting out of the deadly surface of the lake, right at the territorial monster in whose den they’re trespassing.

Sar sets over in a series of graceful bounds Yare knows he couldn’t imitate if it wasn’t for minor Force-teleportation and throws himself at their target with no visible hesitation, Scree hot on his heels. Seeing as she has a _jetpack_ that is all he is going to say about their commander’s speed.

The beast makes the whole cave rattle in its outrage. While his fellow Imperials get to hacking away at it, Yare has to take a moment and save Ghost from an impromptu lava bath. The Chiss hisses what he can only assume are curses the whole way to the island.

Thank the stars he weighs next to nothing even in full gear.

“Ravri'ihah ravri'ihah! What kind of tactic is this! I’m a gods’ damned sniper!”

 _Tell me about it_. Yare isn’t exactly a frontline fighter either.

Though, granted, he wouldn’t want to be where they were a minute ago, all told. He’s pretty sure one of the stalactites just came down over there.

He has barely reached the rock outcropping they are fighting on before it turns out the creature isn’t _alone_. At least the lava dwelling hounds are prime real estate for life-energy transfer. It’s… it’s something.

 

* * *

 

Their commander is, in a word, mental. Yare is certain of it. Before the fight is over Sar breaks his helmet on the primal beast’s _rock-plated_ _head_ when it tries to snap up one of the assassins for a snack and he head-butts it without a pause.

Head-butts. It.

It rears back with a roar of surprise. Or pain. Hard to say. At this point Yare would believe it unchecked.

Their commander’s helmet breaks clean in two at the faceplate. While Yare is still _staring_ (Ghost has to return the favour of his earlier save and drag him out of range of one of the smaller creatures), Sar takes roughly five seconds to tear it off and discard it and then he’s back in the fight, eyes burning as brightly as the lava around them and teeth bared in a snarl.

The oppressive heat doesn’t seem to faze him. That’s about when Yare upgrades him from ‘Thanaton’ to ‘would make Thanaton cry’. He’s not sure anymore that this guy is actually _human_. There has to be something else in the mix here. Maybe _rancor blood_ because High Sith sure wouldn’t cut it, not going by the representatives of the species Yare has met so far.

Between Tempest and Scree, who _know no fear and no common sense_ , they manage to tag team the creature into submission before it brings the whole cave down on their heads.

Suns and stars. This is not what he signed up for and they are nowhere near finished.

 

“Everyone in one piece?” Sar glances over his team once they’ve collapsed at the lip of the cave system, high above a valley dotted with lush alien flora. He sounds just as mild as he did when he gave Yare his meagre debriefing. Maybe a bit more winded. (And a little more _excited_ , Force help them.)

Yare musters the trace of dried blood on his forehead and the bridge of his nose, transfixed. It looks a little like a warrior’s tattoo, or a bloody equivalent of that strange jewellery Purebloods are so fond of.

How did he break his _helmet_ but not his _head_?

“Yare?”

Sar’s visage is very suddenly much closer than before. A delicate frown is crinkling his aristocratic brow. “Uh,” Yare blinks his way back to the present, much as he rather wouldn’t. “I’m alright. Heat must be getting to me.”

Somewhere to the side Ghost has a sudden coughing fit that sounds suspiciously like ‘ _Yeah, right_.’

… next time Yare will let him go skinny-dipping.

 

* * *

 

Their break is short-lived. Not only is their mission time sensitive, their commander has an _idea_.

Dear gods.

Yare wasn’t looking forward to the trek through the jungle below them but… but…

Vette catches the glint in Sar’s eyes first and her reaction really should have clued him in. They are getting their wits together and their gear checked, while their commander takes stock of the situation when she suddenly goes stiff.

Yare doesn’t get _why_ until it’s much, much too late. After all, Sar is only taking in the outcropping they have picked for a vantage point. It’s clearly technological, somewhat of a terrace. So far no wild animals have attempted to make a meal of them. Perhaps there are mechanisms in place to keep them confined to the lower levels.

Sar musters the terrace thoughtfully and Vette goes pale all the way to the tips of her lekku.

“ _Don’t even think about it_.”

He meets her eyes and Yare is just close enough to catch the small smile that slowly grows into a grin that makes something inside him curl up and shiver. Some ancient instinct of a small, defenceless creature that knows _much better_ than his highly evolved reasoning skills.

“Too late. Already did.”

 

* * *

 

‘ _Everybody find something to hold on to’_ as a warning, does, in no shape or form, do justice to their commander’s latest plan.

To his credit he makes sure they’re all secure, _for a given amount of security_. That’s… no. Nope. Yare is done, he won’t try to justify this development even in his head.

Maybe the heat, or the smoke, really did get to him because he doesn’t catch up until Sar has herded them to the front of the terrace and made his way back to where metal meets rock. He unhooks one of his lightsabers from his belt and activates it with the snap-hiss of a well-crafted blade.

 _That_ is when Yare realizes what is going to happen next. He… he doesn’t know what he expected. He really doesn’t.

Sar cuts them loose and barely makes it back to the balustrade before the whole terrace starts to tip. The remaining fastenings groan in protest and give way. Time seems to slow to a crawl. Yare’s lungs seize in terror.

This is _crazy_.

The platform they are standing on begins to fall. Gravity, barely noticeable one moment and implacable the next, has them and it won’t let them go, not for anything, not even for the curl of their commander’s power Yare can feel crawling over the edges of the terrace as they gain speed, falling faster and faster.

Vette isn’t the only one who screams at the top of her lungs all the way to the bottom of the ravine.

He can’t imagine how the non-Force-sensitive members of their group must feel, who can’t sense how it bunches around them, preparing for impact.

They hit the ground with enough momentum to rattle him to the bone. For an endless heartbeat he isn’t sure if it will be enough, it _can’t_ be enough, no one could have that much fine control while _in free-fall_ -

And they skip. The whole terrace slides over the ground instead of breaking, like a giant surfboard and- _Oh no_.

It takes a small hill like a jump and they’re in the air again.

Faintly, Yare is aware that Scree is shouting in what sounds like genuine delight. Looks like at least _one_ of them is enjoying this madness.

 

They tear a trail of devastation through the jungle. Trees that must have survived centuries are uprooted in their way.

It still isn’t enough to slow them down significantly. Their ride doesn’t stop until the bank of a lava river (what is _wrong_ with this damned planet?) sends them airborne again and the ground they come down on on proves to be unable to withstand their landing.

They break straight through and come to a skidding halt in the ancient ruins of a temple-like structure that… probably was less destroyed five seconds ago.

Yare doesn’t even have the energy to be appalled by that. He can barely muster the will to hang over the railing listlessly and be glad this hell is _over_.

A few rungs to the right Lord Gril is prying off his helmet with shaking fingers and proceeds to lose his lunch. Yare can sympathize.

The demon they are serving under rolls out his shoulders and cracks his neck. “Well, that saved us some time, I do think.”

Merciful suns.

Ghost stumbles his way to the ground with the expression of someone who has met his maker and would dearly like to drink his weight in rotgut until he forgets the experience. “Bei raszah ch\'an\'ciuh ch'ah.”

Whatever that meant, he can say it again.

 

After that whole ordeal fighting the ancient threat at the end of the hallway they entered via the ceiling is barely worth mentioning.

… that’s a shameless lie. Yare is still trying to forget about having to jump from one floating piece of floor to another while they were pelted with statues that could have taken them out with their weight alone. He suspects there isn’t enough alcohol in the entire galaxy to get over that mission.

But what came _before_ that fight… the orchestrator of _that_ isn’t dead and buried under tons of rubble. Oh no. He is _right here_. And he is his _boss_.

 _This_ is who they elected to be Emperor.

Yeah, Yare is… he is not convinced anyone but him has the first idea what they’re in for here and he kind of wishes he didn’t.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say that I am AMAZED that anyone who has had to run a mission with Yon would put him in charge of anything? XD  
> He mellowed with age and responsibility but not a lot. Lana, I’m looking at you. (You too, Theron. You too.)
> 
> (To be fair, he is more careful with troops he doesn’t assume are on his level. Which he totally did in here. COMPLETELY.)


End file.
